Pirates and Soldiers
by TimeLordWithAPen
Summary: Sherlock Holmes wasn't the sort of child who made friends easily. John Watson wasn't the sort of child who ignored someone when they needed help. AU, kid!lock, no pairings.
1. The Soldier's First Victory

_A/N – Hi everyone! So I've finally worked up the courage to actually post something on this site. This is my first go at writing fanfiction, so any feedback would be hugely appreciated! The plan for this fic is to do individual short stories for each chapter, with each one set when Sherlock and John were kids. I have a couple more chapters planned out, but I'm completely open to requests! Leave me your suggestions in a review, or drop me a PM, and I promise I'll give them a go :) But enough of me blabbering. Enjoy some kid!lock._

_Summary: Sherlock Holmes wasn't the sort of child who made friends easily. John Watson wasn't the sort of child who ignored someone when they needed help. AU, one-shot, no pairings. For the purposes of this story, Anderson's first name is Jacob. Sherlock is aged about 6, John about 7, and Anderson's 10._

_DISCLAIMER: If I owned Sherlock, then Series 3 would definitely be out by now, so clearly I own nothing :(_

* * *

**PIRATES AND SOLDIERS**

**Chapter 1 – The Soldier's First Victory**

The little boy sat back and admired his masterpiece. He sat alone right in the corner of the sandpit, completely ignoring the shouts and laughter of the other children in the playground. The child had spent the last half hour building a pirate ship out of sand, and at last his creation was finished. He smiled smugly to himself. It was perfect.

Brushing one of his dark curls out of his eyes, he looked around for his mother, desperate to show her his work. This time, she would be impressed, he knew it. This time she would finally pay some attention to him. He spotted his mother, a smart looking business woman sitting awkwardly on one of the wooden park benches. With her laptop on her lap, and her mobile phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear, she was paying no attention whatsoever to what her son was doing. He stood up, but before he could shout her name, a different voice sounded from behind him.

"Hey freak!"

The little boy jumped at the sound. He knew that voice. Jacob Anderson. The child turned slowly, trying his best to mask the fear behind his eyes. He still hadn't managed to learn to completely conceal his emotions - yet another skill which his brother possessed, and which he lacked.

Anderson stood directly behind his pirate ship. He was taller than the little boy, who was naturally small and thin. However the height advantage was mainly due to the fact that Anderson was nearly four years his senior, and had reached the all-important age of ten.

"What's the little _genius_ up to, then?" Anderson said, putting stress on the word "genius" to turn the question into a sneer. Glancing down at the pirate ship, he gave a gasp of mock surprise. "Did you build this? Well, isn't it good?" Anderson was smirking now. "What do you think would happen if I just… slipped?" He lifted his left foot up to hover it painfully close to the pirate ship, pressing against it ever so lightly, so that a tiny stream of sand trickled down the side.

The little boy could feel the sense of fear growing inside him, but he fought to remain in control. "I don't think you should do that." He said.

"Oh yeah? Why shouldn't I?" Anderson sneered.

"Because if you do, I'll tell your mum that you stole those trainers from Karl." The little boy grinned as Anderson's eyes widened with shock.

"How do you… WHO TOLD YOU?!" Anderson shouted, his face flushed with anger.

"No one told me, I _observed_." The younger boy said, proud of learning such professional sounding word. "The way you kept wriggling your feet meant that they were uncomfy, and they didn't fit you properly. They're exactly the same style as Karl's, and they also have the same stain along the bottom from where he trod in that puddle last week." The little boy stood up as straight as he could, grinning smugly at the furious look on Anderson's face. "And your mum's a police officer, isn't she?" The child was enjoying himself now. "So if I tell her, then she'll have to arrest you, and then you'd go to jail, and- AHHH!"

Anderson had had enough. Snarling down at the smaller boy, he kicked the pirate ship as hard as he could, sending sand flying up into the child's face. The little boy toppled over, coughing to get the sand out of his nose, and furiously rubbing his tear-filled eyes. Anderson leaned over him, his dark brown eyes narrowed with anger.

"You listen to me, you little freak!" Anderson hissed, "don't you _ever_ mention this to _anyone_, you understand?" The child nodded, still desperately trying to rub the sand and tears from his eyes. He would not cry, he would _not_ cry. "Good." Anderson snarled, and he gave the boy one final shove.

"Hey!" A new voice made itself known to the two boys. Spinning around, Anderson saw another boy, around the same size as the first child, but not as skinny. He marched right up to Anderson and said, as forcefully as he could, "leave him alone!"

Anderson laughed cruelly, before giving this second little boy a hard push, knocking him into the sandpit next to the other boy. "Don't tell me what to do, midget!" he sneered, and, giving the first boy one final glare, he turned around and sauntered away.

The first little boy sat up, his eyes still red and watery from the sand, and looked down at the crumpled pile of sand which had once been a pirate ship. He sniffed, and, wiping his nose on his sleeve, he turned to face the other boy. He had short, light brown hair and grey eyes, and he was looking at him with concern.

"Are you okay?" he asked, "I saw that guy hurting you."

"I'm fine." The first boy snapped back, staring gloomily back at the wreckage of his pirate ship. There was a slight pause, before the second boy spoke again.

"What's your name?"

The first child thought about this for a moment. This boy was being friendly. No one was ever friendly to him, and he sort of liked it that way. Being alone suited him, it meant he could think. No one else seemed to understand the way he thought; they thought he was being rude. They weren't as clever as he was, and he knew it. But then again… he would at least need some help in rebuilding his pirate ship. Not that he couldn't do it fantastically himself, it would just be easier with a second person, that's all.

"Sherlock." He replied, quietly.

"Sherlock? That's a cool name." The other boy said.

"What do you mean it's a 'cool name'? How can a name be cool?" Sherlock was genuinely puzzled. A name was just a name, it didn't mean anything.

"Well, it's just that… I've never met anyone called Sherlock before." The second boy said, smiling. "It's… different. That's all. My name's John. John Watson." He held out his hand, and Sherlock shook it, tentatively.

Sherlock didn't know what to say now. He had never had a friend before, the only person he ever talked to was his brother, and he didn't count as a friend. More like an enemy. John, however, didn't seem at all lost for words.

"So, what were you doing, before that mean guy came over?" he asked.

"I was building a pirate ship." Sherlock replied, still slightly wary. "I'm going to be a pirate when I'm grown up. Then I'll be able to make Anderson walk the plank! And he'll fall into the water where all the sharks live, and they'll eat him all up!" Sherlock grinned widely at the thought, and John laughed.

"That's awesome!" he said. "When I grow up, I'm going to be a soldier. I'm going to fight all the bad guys and save the world!" His face was full of excitement as he spoke, like he couldn't wait to get started.

"A soldier? That's a stupid thing to want to be." Sherlock said, not meaning to scorn, simply stating his thoughts aloud.

John turned back to look at Sherlock, his face full of hurt. "Don't say that. It's a great thing to be. You get to stop all the evil guys; you get to be a hero!" He said earnestly, trying to convince Sherlock to see his point of view. "Just like my dad." He added quietly.

"Heroes don't exist. Not like in stories and everything." Sherlock said, simply, "And anyway, if you were a soldier, you'd have to do everything you were told to do, all the time! That must be so _boring_!" Sherlock wasn't exactly one to always follow rules.

"Yeah… I guess." John said, thoughtfully.

There was a slight pause, before Sherlock said, hesitantly, "do you… do you want to help me build another pirate ship?"

John smiled. "Okay."

* * *

_That's all for now! Hopefully I'll have a second chapter up within a week, but in the meantime I'd love to hear your thoughts! Love it? Hate it? Stick it in a review! Also, don't forget to leave me your requests if you have a chapter idea in mind._

_Bye for now!_

_TimeLordWithAPen :)_


	2. The Speckled Boy

_A/N - Hello! First of all I'd like to say a massive thank you to everyone who's read this story, especially to those of you who followed it or added it to your favourites. You guys made my day so THANK YOU! I hope you all enjoy chapter 2, as always I'm open to requests so please don't hesitate to send me your ideas. This chapter takes place roughly a week after the previous one, and I'm afraid I have no idea what Sherlock and John's mothers are called, so for the purposes of this story their names are Violet and Charlotte. According the original Sherlock Holmes books, Mycroft is 7 years older than Sherlock, so I've stuck to that meaning he's thirteen in this story._

_Summary: Sherlock Holmes wasn't the sort of child who made friends easily. John Watson wasn't the sort of child who ignored someone when they needed help. AU, kid!lock, no pairings._

_DISCLAIMER: If I owned Sherlock, Series 3 would definitely be out by now, so clearly I own nothing :(_

* * *

**Chapter 2 – The Speckled Boy**

"Will he be here soon?" The little boy knelt on the edge of the sofa, his face pressed against the cold glass of the window, watching the road for the sign of cars.

"It's only one-thirty, John. Your friend isn't going to be here until two." His mother stood in the doorway of the sitting room, smiling as she watched her son bouncing up and down in excitement. He had been practically quivering with energy last week at the playground, after meeting the strange little boy who said his name was "Sherlock". She had been somewhat dubious about John getting too friendly with him – the child had seemed… odd, there was no other way to describe it. The way he had looked at her… it was as if he somehow knew what she was thinking. His mother hadn't seemed too fussed about what her child got up to, and had agreed to a time and date for the boys to meet without really paying much attention. No doubt she would forget all about the play-date.

"Mum!" The shout broke Mrs Watson's train of thought.

"What is it, Harry?" She called back.

A girl of about eleven walked into the room, with a disinterested look on her face. "Phone for you; someone called Violet Holmes?"

"Ah! Sherlock's mother." _Probably calling to cancel_ she thought. John's head had whipped around to stare at his mother, anxious for news of his friend. "Thank you, dear." She added as she took the phone from her daughter, who turned and left the room.

"Hello? Yes, speaking. Oh, what a shame! Okay. Thanks for letting us know. Wish him better from us! Thanks, bye!" Sighing, she ended the call, and looked over towards John. The child had an anxious, almost pleading look on his face, as if he was willing the news of his friend to be positive. "I'm sorry, sweetie. Sherlock's not very well, he can't come over today." His mother said.

John looked heartbroken. He had been counting down the days until he would see Sherlock again. He was always excited to meet new friends, but he was especially glad that he had met Sherlock. It was the first time where he felt like he had actually helped someone – he had stopped that bully from hurting Sherlock, and he was extremely proud of himself. It was why he wanted to be a soldier, like his father had been. He would get to protect people.

"We have to go over and see him." John said firmly.

"John-" his mother started, but the seven-year-old cut her off.

"We can bring him a 'get well soon' card. And chocolate! That always makes me feel better!"

His mother was about to argue, but catching sight of John's determined face and puppy-dog eyes made her defences crumble. "Alright," she said with a sigh. "But if Sherlock's mummy says that he's too unwell for us to see him then we're coming straight home, okay?"

John nodded vigorously, his eyes alight with excitement. His mother smiled as he leapt off the sofa and bounded up the stairs to his bedroom.

An hour and a half later, Mrs Watson found herself standing in the doorway of a stately looking house, holding John's hand firmly as he stood a few steps behind her, craning his neck to get a good view around his mother's legs. He was clutching a home-made "get well soon" card (which he was immensely proud of, especially his truly excellent drawing of Anderson walking the plank of "Captain" Sherlock's pirate ship), and an extra-large bar of Dairy Milk chocolate. Mrs Watson rang the doorbell.

Barely two minutes later, the door opened slowly to reveal a tall, smart-looking teenage boy, with a haughty face, and brown hair combed back neatly.

"Hi, um, I'm Charlotte Watson, John's mother. We heard that Sherlock was a bit under the weather and so John wanted to bring him a card." She said, slightly nervously. The boy had an unexplainable air of being in control, despite the fact that he could not be older than thirteen.

"Oh, well that's very kind of you." He said, a tiny flicker of surprise crossing his features, but it was quickly hidden behind a charming smile. "But I don't think it would be a good idea for you to come in at the moment. Sherlock has chickenpox, you see, and-"

"That's okay!" John said brightly, stepping forwards from his place of safety behind his mother's legs. "I've already had chickenpox, and the doctor said that you can't have it twice!"

"Oh, well in that case…" The boy trailed off before he could finish the sentence. He seemed to be contemplating something, and for a moment he said nothing. Finally, with a long look at John, he said, "do please come in. My name's Mycroft, I'm Sherlock's older brother. It's a pleasure to meet you."

* * *

Sherlock was miserable. For starters, he was itchy everywhere. He was covered from head to toe in angry red pockmarks, and no matter how much he scratched them they wouldn't stop hurting. His nose kept running, and his throat was dry and sore, meaning that it hurt every time he swallowed. Not to mention the fact that he felt sick to the stomach, and his head felt like someone was pounding him repeatedly with a hammer. All-in-all, he felt dreadful, and it greatly irritated him that he could do nothing about it.

But it wasn't just the illness that was bothering him. He had been like this for two days now, and not once had his mother come in to see him. She sent the nanny upstairs to give him his medicine, to try and get him to eat something, and to basically act as his nurse. His brother had come in once, and asked if he was feeling any better, to which the answer had been a firm "NO" and a pillow thrown at Mycroft's head. His father hadn't even asked about him, but he wasn't expecting him to. When he didn't come home drunk he came home with a hangover, and any attempt to get a coherent response from him would usually end with a slap. Sherlock knew his mother was scared of him, he knew that she pretended to be smart and professional so that no one would know what was really going on. He hated his father for this, for making his mother feel afraid. But he wished that his mother would at least pretend to care for him too, instead of focussing on his perfect, goody-two-shoes older brother.

A knock on the door broke into the six-year-old's far too dark thoughts. Sherlock jumped with surprise. Who would be coming into visit him? The nanny only came in three times a day – morning, noon, and evening. He'd already had his spoon of medicine after "lunch" – a bowl of soup he'd taken one spoonful of, before feeling horribly sick and eating no more. The door creaked open, and a head peaked nervously round the doorframe.

It was John! The boy from the playground. The boy who had helped him. The boy who had wanted to be his friend.

"Hello Sherlock." John said, softly. "Are you okay?"

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to reply, he was so surprised that John had come to see him. "I thought my mum called your mum, and said that we couldn't see each other today."

John looked confused. "Well, yeah, she called. But I wasn't going to stay at home whilst you were ill. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look puzzled. "But… why would you be worried about me?"

John was taken aback. He thought that was obvious. "Because we're friends, aren't we?" He said, a bit of hurt seeping into his voice. Did Sherlock not like him anymore? "That's what friends are meant to do - help each other." He said firmly, as if confirming the point to himself, convincing himself that he'd done the right thing by coming to visit.

Sherlock's eyes lit up as John spoke. _Friends_. He'd said they were friends. Proper friends. "I've never had a friend before." He unknowingly stated his thoughts aloud.

"Never?" John said incredulously. Sherlock, realising his mistake, blushed furiously, his spotted cheeks flushing scarlet. When he saw that John was still looking at him, he slowly shook his head.

John couldn't believe it. How could someone not have any friends? You meet people all the time – at school, at clubs, at the park. But when he saw that Sherlock was still blushing, he realised it must be the truth. "Oh." Was the only thing he could think of saying.

"But… but you'll be my friend?" Sherlock said tentatively, as if trying to prove to himself that John meant what he said, that this wasn't all some elaborate trick.

John smiled. "Course I will! Here, I brought you something." He held out the card for Sherlock to see.

Sherlock's mouth fell open in astonishment. John had brought him a present! He never got presents – maybe one on his birthday, if his mother remembered, or perhaps one or two at Christmas. John handed the card to Sherlock, who pushed himself up on his pillows so that he could read it properly.

John watched as Sherlock's eyes lit up with delight as he read, and he felt a sense of accomplishment and pride seep through him when Sherlock started laughing at his drawing of Anderson walking the plank.

"I- I…" Sherlock didn't know what to say. He loved the card, loved it more than anything he owned. After a short pause, during which Sherlock struggled to remember the right words, he said quietly, "Thank you."

"You're welcome!" John said brightly.

Sherlock gave a loud yawn then. His headache had been growing steadily worse whilst he and John had been talking, and now he was starting to get tired. John noticed, and started to move towards the door.

"I'll go now. You can go to sleep if you want." He said.

"No!" Sherlock cried, the desperation in his voice surprising John. "Don't go! I- I mean… you don't have to go." Sherlock said softly, his voice almost pleading. He liked it when John was here. He didn't want his new friend to leave already. He coughed loudly, and his chest burned as he did so, but he didn't care. He didn't want to be left alone again. When he had finished, he saw that John looked worried. "I'm fine." He said, "Just… stay?"

John smiled. "Okay, I'll stay." He said, and he sat down in the armchair opposite Sherlock's bed. _This is what friends are for_, he thought. _For helping each other_.

* * *

_That's all for now! As always, I'd love to hear from you, so whether you loved the story or hated it let me know in a review! Also, don't forget to send me your requests if you have any particular chapter ideas in mind. School starts again on Monday, so I may not be able to get the next chapter up until next weekend, but I'll try to get it to you ASAP. Bye for now!_

_~ TimeLordWithAPen :)_


End file.
